


Hand Pulled

by Arolynne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Elevator Sex, Hand Jobs, I blame him entirely, Inspired by an interview with Martin Freeman, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-04-26 16:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14406363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arolynne/pseuds/Arolynne
Summary: John is late for an interview at Bart's Hospital, and in a mood after losing his taxi to a rude, but admittedly gorgeous man. When the hospital lift suddenly breaks down between floors, who is the only person stuck along with him? Why, the beautiful bastard from the stolen taxi ,of course.Inspired by a recent interview with Martin Freeman where he jokes(?) about being hand pulled in an elevator.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was sitting there, watching an interview with Martin Freeman, as you do, and he made a joke about hand pulling in elevators. And here a little fic idea popped into my head. Now I am really not in the habit of writing and posting, and my writing style is more sprints than cross-country so you can expect short chapters.  
> Because let's face it, I'm just here for the porn too. 
> 
> Not brit-picked, but comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!

The Tube was running late.

On a normal, boring day this wouldn’t have been a huge issue. Inconvenient, yes, annoying to be stuck underground with masses of strangers, certainly, but not something that would have caused the massive anxiety that was now running through John’s body. Today he had an interview at Bart’s Hospital, something his old med schoolmate Mike Stamford had set up after running into him in the park the other day. John had been feeling adrift, aimless after a stray bullet to the shoulder had taken away his army doctor career and left him with a limp. London had always felt fast, and with a cane as a walking companion, it was even faster.

So Mike, solid bloke that he was, had offered to set up a meeting with the Head of Administration to see about a possible job to help John get back into a routine and supplement his meager pension. He supposed he should feel lucky that he had any opportunity to get out of his depressing bedsit and into a position of purpose again, even if the purpose ended up sitting at a desk doing payroll. Really though, he just felt tired and anxious. Best to get this interview done with.

If only the fucking Tube would hurry up!

When fifteen minutes had passed the usual schedule, and still no train had arrived, John decided that the cost of a taxi would be worth it to make the interview on time. He found the lift he had initially used and went back up to the main station to find the taxi rank. Two taxis waited in the line and John headed to the first, three steps away from the car door when a dark blur passed him to reach for the same door.

John had the presence of mind to step back before he was knocked over, but still found himself reeling as a tall man in a long dark coat began climbing into the taxi. The taxi John had just been about to take for himself! Who the fuck…

“Oi, that was my taxi!” John shouted at the back of the man’s head, fist clenching onto the handle of his cane.

The man turned, enough that John was able to make out curly dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and striking aquamarine eyes. Those eyes traveled the length of John’s body, inspiring goosebumps to rise along his skin as the man’s gaze seemed to see into him. The man remained expressionless, but flippantly responded “There’s another right behind, I’m sure your interview can wait a few extra minutes” before he leaned forward to give the driver instructions. The taxi pulled away, leaving John standing gape-mouthed.

“What a bastard” John muttered to himself. An admittedly beautiful bastard, but a bastard nonetheless. With cheekbones like that, he must have been late for a meeting with his model agency or some other beautiful person affair. But how had the man known about his interview?

The next taxi pulled up in front of him and, shaking himself from his thoughts of the compelling man, John quickly pulled himself inside and directed the driver to Bart’s. Finally, he was (hopefully) moving in the right direction.


	2. Small miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took a while, but things in RL took me away for a bit. But here it is, finally, the finale, the culmination, the peak, the... well you know!
> 
> Everything I said in my first note was a lie, apparently, as I cross-countried this chapter and took forever to get it where I wanted it. Thanks to Ariane DeVere for the Study in Pink transcripts, they were absolutely helpful for this first meeting. 
> 
> I'd love to hear from any readers! You can find me on tumblr as bunaddict! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The taxi dropped him off close to an entrance, close enough that he only had to walk a few feet to enter. He had three minutes until his interview, and as long as nothing happened from the entrance to the third floor he was right on track. 

The hospital was busy, and the general commotion was inspiring John’s anxiety again. His hand clenched on his cane handle, the physical reminder that he couldn’t keep up with the pace other’s around him were setting. Just get in the lift, just get out of the way, just get this over with!

The doors to one of the lifts was in process of closing, so John hurried forward, intent on catching the doors before they could completely shut. Shit, he was just barely going to make it, one more step, the doors were almost closed, he stuck the length of his cane into the gap between doors, and they parted to grant him access. John quickly slid his body in, facing the back wall, another body in his peripheral vision present in the carriage.

The lift creaked as it began its descent, the button for the morgue already lit, and John inhaled sharply through his nose. The lifts had been old when John had attended Barts as a student, and it didn’t look like the recent remodel had done much to change their precarious nature.  
John glanced at his fellow lift companion and froze. It was the same guy who had stolen his ride! The same fucking jerk who had seen a guy struggling with a cane and had not thought twice about leaping for the taxi door first. 

John’s initial anger jumped to the forefront of his mind. He pressed the tab for the third floor, a little bit harsher than normal.  
The other man didn’t seem to notice him, too focused on the mobile in his hand. John gave a quiet snort, irritation coloring his actions. 

Posh git.  
Posh, rude git.  
Posh, rude, _attractive_ git. 

Maybe that was the most annoying thing of all, that John could still feel a spark of interest in such a man. Well, whatever, once the lift stopped this man would be long gone. A tiny voice in John’s head reminded him that’s what he thought with the taxi and now here they were.

*Clang*

And it just kept getting better.

The lift shuddered to a stop with a resounding screech. 

John was closer to the button panel, so he reached and pressed for the third floor. Nothing happened. The other man gave an impatient huff and reached out as well to press his desired floor button, which happened to be the M. 

John frowned. What did this man want with the morgue? 

Pressing the buttons did nothing, and even the ambient noise of the outside elevator shaft seemed silenced. At least the lights hadn’t turned off. The taxi-stealing stranger was muttering to himself, fiddling with a mobile. 

John tried to calm himself down. Maybe this would only be a small inconvenience. Maybe the elevator would just start again, without them having to do anything. Maybe another ten seconds and the lift would start up. That’s certainly how it had been in med school, but enough years had passed that John hadn’t even considered this to be a problem anymore.

“I thought they had fixed this,” John muttered under his breath, not caring if the other man heard him.

The other man was searching for the emergency panel, obviously not willing to wait any longer than necessary. Having found it, he pressed the button to report an emergency and waited for the light that told them building maintenance was aware of their situation. Once that was completed, out came the other man’s mobile and his attention was again redirected.

John pulled his own mobile out of his pocket, at this point just confirming that he had indeed missed his interview. The man’s eyes flicked his way at the movement. “Might I borrow your mobile? Mine has no service.” If the man’s looks were something to behold, his voice was just as arresting. Deep, resonant, with a cultured accent that spoke of a rich upbringing and a public-school education. The man gave him a brief smile, one that looked odd stretched across his angular face. 

“Uh, sure.” John felt a confusing mixture of irritation and attraction at having the man’s attention directed at him and handed over the mobile his sister had gifted him recently. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John turned to look at the stranger. The man’s attention was trained on his phone, fingers flying over the keyboard, and if he wasn’t the only other person in the elevator, it might not have been apparent that he was the one who had even spoken. “I’m sorry?”

“Which was it-Afghanistan or Iraq?” He still hadn’t looked up. 

John hesitated before answering. “Afghanistan. But what, how did you know th— “

The man sighed and finally looked up, sea glass eyes meeting his again, and handed back the phone. 

“I know you’re a doctor, an Army doctor, invalided home, from Afghanistan apparently. I know you have an alcoholic sibling, who gave you that phone. I know your limp is psychosomatic. And I know you’re here for a job interview.”

“That’s, that’s, uh, yeah, what? How did you know all that?” John felt like his eyebrows might be colliding with his hairline.

The man gave another sigh. “I’m a consulting detective. Knowing things is my job. Everything I just said about you I deduced.” 

Eighty percent of that statement still didn’t make any sense to John. “A consulting detective?” 

“Yes, when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. I can see the things they can’t. In fact, I’m here to visit the morgue regarding a case.” 

“Don’t the police have their own people for that?” 

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Idiots, the lot of them.”

John felt the sudden inexplicable urge to laugh. 

“Well, Mr. Consulting Detective—”

“Holmes.”

“Sorry?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Just Sherlock, please.”

“Oh,” John blinked. “John. John Watson.” 

“Mmm.”

John frowned. This man obviously didn’t how to hold a polite conversation. He mentally shrugged. His interview was shot to hell, the lift wasn’t moving, he might as well continue this strange encounter.

“And deducing? What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s the same way I knew all that about you.”

John said nothing, but his face must have shown his confusion. Sherlock huffed, but his eyes brightened.

“A military man, easy to see from your haircut and the way you hold yourself. The doctor part was easy too. You mentioned a familiarity with the elevator systems and their tendency to break down, how would you know that about this elevator if you hadn’t been here at Barts in the past. Doctor, then, trained here, you could be a patient but you don’t look ill, in fact your skin is tanned. Tanned, like you’ve been abroad for some time, god knows we don’t get enough sun here. I asked you Afghanistan or Iraq, and you confirmed yourself, Afghanistan. The limp tells me injured in combat, but the fact that you don’t tell seem overly bothered by it now, even when we’ve been standing for a while says that the pain is at least partly psychosomatic. Now, your phone. Obviously, a gift, you’re here for a job interview and need money so you wouldn’t be buying such a expensive model for yourself. Previously owned, judging by the inscription on the back. Scratch marks tell the tale of alcoholism; shaky hands when they go to recharge. And the job interview? Calendar notification popped up when I borrowed your mobile. There, you see? Obvious.”

In contrast to the confident way he had spouted his deductions, Sherlock was looking at the far wall of the lift, seemingly avoiding John’s gaze in trepidation to John’s reaction. If he had turned, he would have witnessed the absolute gob smacked look on the man’s face. 

“That…was amazing.”

Sherlock blinked. Looked down, and then back at him. “I’m sorry?” He sounded genuinely confused.

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” John couldn’t keep the awe from his voice. 

A slight flush suffused Sherlock’s skyscraper cheekbones, and although he tried to hide it, John could tell the praise had pleased him. 

“That’s not what people normally say.” 

“What do they normally say?” 

“Piss off.” 

John couldn’t keep in the laugh this time, and he shared a grin with Sherlock, feeling like he was a lucky visitor into the mind of this extraordinary man. Not just an attractive face and form, but a certifiable genius. John was almost ready to forgive him for the stolen taxi.

“Well, Sherlock, you know why I was here. What sort of case would have you visiting the morgue, then?”

Sherlock’s face was still slightly flushed, and it made him look like a devious angel. “The sort that involves a 48-year-old diplomat, a Bikram yoga class, and muscle relaxants. The man’s corpse was being held here and I wanted to be sure that I relayed my conclusion before they started discharge proceedings.”

John couldn’t help it. He wanted to hear more about this man and his methods. He wanted to hear that plummy voice weave around his deductions, watch those plush lips form precise syllables. So he asked.

“What was your conclusion?”

Sherlock launched into an explanation of the case, his elegant hands dancing in front of him as he explained how he had cracked the death of the diplomat. As the detective talked, John asked questions, made sure he understood, and contributed his own knowledge to the baffling case. The conversation evolved, Sherlock mentioning other cases, John expressing interest and before the two knew, an hour had passed. 

Sherlock, it turned out, was very willing to talk about his brilliant deductions. And brilliant they were! John couldn’t stop himself from proclaiming his fascination. At every exclamation of awe, Sherlock’s cheeks tinted rose, a fact that just made John want to give him more compliments. Just to see that pleased blush again.

For every compliment, every observation of Sherlock’s brilliance, every addition that turned out to be right, and even those that turned out to be wrong, Sherlock’s cheeks grew pinker, his eyes grew darker, his wit sharper. His body closer. They found themselves sitting on the floor, John leaning against the wall, Sherlock crouched in front of him, demonstrating how he had solved his previous case. 

“…and that’s how I knew that the guinea pig had definitely eaten the diamond.” Sherlock finished.

“Amazing!” John laughed. 

“Simple,” scoffed the detective, blue eyes flicking up to meet John’s, wry smile painted across his lips. John found his own mouth stretch, and a taut silence pulled between them. 

It was broken by the movement of the lift, a quick jerk of the carriage that could only mean that maintenance was working to fix the problem. It should have been great news, but the sudden movement found Sherlock losing balance from his crouch and ending up perched above John, leading John to think that maybe this situation had never been a problem at all.

For a moment, neither moved. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s mouth and back again, the blue drowned out by the black of his pupils. There was a question in the air between them, one that neither wanted to verbalize but one that really needed an answer. John licked his suddenly dry lips, and those damn all-seeing eyes flicked back down and held.

“John…” Sherlock breathed, a warm gust against his mouth. He knew what the man was asking, a question without a question, and John knew the answer, knew the only answer he could possibly give. 

“Oh, god, yes.”

Lips met with a slick clasp, mouths already open to admit questing tongues. There was no space for chasteness, no breath for hesitation. It felt like the culmination of a long journey, like the obvious answer to a puzzle John didn’t even know he had been trying to solve. It felt like danger and comfort, like excitement and predictability, like the unknown and the completely familiar. It was heat and tongues and slick and oh god, the sharp bite of teeth. 

John’s fingers found the dark tangle of curls and he grasped them, controlling the angle of the kiss and then breaking their lips apart for him to journey. He found Sherlock’s jaw with his lips and followed the curve to his ear, sucking the earlobe into his mouth. This close, the man smelled like expensive wool, earl grey tea, and tobacco. John wanted to luxuriate in his smell, but found his fingers slipping from Sherlock’s hair as the man bent his head too far forward to keep holding.

Sherlock’s hands were moving inexorably to his zipper, the sound of it being drawn down loud in the quiet lift. John let his head tip back to rest on the elevator wall, the weight of it suddenly too much. Sherlock’s elegant fingers were reaching into his trousers, pulling his swollen cock out into the cool air and tracing the length of it. He gave his erection a squeeze and John shivered, a groan edging its way out of his throat. This man, these _hands_ …

“Unh, god, please!” gasped John, feeling too much to be embarrassed.

A sardonic twist of lips was his only answer, and Sherlock’s eyes left their intense study of his face to transfer attention to his hardened length. 

Sherlock’s hand was stroking his cock, swiping his thumb over the head to smear his dewy precum down the length. A certain twist of Sherlock’s wrist wrung another whine out of him, a zing of excitement shooting down his spine. His hand was stroking, pumping, jerking his flesh, finding sensitive spots and pulling groans from John’s throat.

“Fuck. Sherlock…” John growled, ducking his head into the taller man’s shoulder. It shouldn’t feel so good, shouldn’t be exactly what John had been missing. The intoxicating challenge of the man, the heady pleasure of the encounter, the stress of his day, of his life, being drained away, literally jerked right out of him…it was almost perfect.

It had been too long since anyone had touched him, even longer since he had felt this level of want. His orgasm was approaching fast, way faster than he would have liked, but the pleasure was clouding his mind, making it hard to remember all the reasons why a handjob in an elevator was a terrible idea. His cock didn’t care, twitching and swelling in Sherlock’s grip.

Sherlock’s lips were at his ear, purring velvet encouragement, warm breath shuddering over him. “Come on, John. You want this. You need this. You _crave_ this. Right now. Right here. Come on, I want to see you come, feel it, taste it, _please_!”

That was it, Sherlock’s begging and the images too much for John’s mind and body to handle. His back arched, spine tightening as his release pulsed through and out. His eyes were clenched shut, starbursts of light behind his eyelids, and his gritted teeth couldn’t contain the coarse groans. The pleasure seemed to keep going and as John came back to himself, he realized that Sherlock was still gently fondling him, making the climax last just a little longer. The hand pulled away just before the oversensitivity kicked in, and John slumped back, panting.

The usual warmth and stickiness of his come was surprisingly absent, and John realized that Sherlock’s other hand had caught most of the mess in a handkerchief. Handy that, John couldn’t help giggling at his own pun, the pleasure making him giddy. 

Sherlock was tucking the soiled cloth away, not seeming to care of the contents. The only indication of their actions was the flush fading down his long neck and the slick pinkness of his lips. Must have bitten them while at his…work. John reached forward, eager to reciprocate, but Sherlock just gave him a small smile and shook his head. He gestured to the ceiling, and looking up, John could hear the electrical wiring outside the carriage kicking into gear.

“The lift will be starting soon. Don’t want to be caught in the middle.”

John frowned, feeling like a heel for not getting his act together sooner. He wasn’t the type of man to leave his partner unsatisfied, but he couldn’t argue with Sherlock’s point. He grasped the other man’s hand to stand and rearranged his clothes. Just in time.

*Clang*

The elevator started up again, the lobby button lit up. Looked like they were going back to the start.

The doors opened and both men stepped out. After the intense emotion in the lift, it was slightly awkward, John trying to look like he hadn’t just been vigorously jerked in an elevator and Sherlock already seemingly turning his attention away. 

John tried not to feel disappointed and but couldn’t quite stifle it. It seemed that everything John had felt had been one-sided, and this man, this enigma would walk away with only a soiled handkerchief to remember him by. He would be nothing more than a note in Sherlock’s dry cleaning. Still a rude, posh git then.

John tucked his hands into his jacket and looked toward the front desk. He should probably try and get another interview while he was here…

“Man of your skills, your knowledge…you’d be wasted here.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, instead peering at his phone. 

“And you have a better idea, do you?”

“As a matter of fact…” Sherlock turned his phone towards John to show him a news alert on the BBC news page. The same name that the detective had mentioned earlier flashed across the screen, proclaiming that the baffling case had finally been solved with the help of one Sherlock Holmes. The grin on Sherlock’s face was blinding, the thrill of an obvious victory suffusing his face with glee. 

“But how did they…”

“When I borrowed your phone. Texted my findings. The DI in charge can work very fast when he wants to.” Sherlock tucked his mobile away again and sent John an appraising look. “I could use an assistant, John. Your knowledge could come in very handy.” 

John was still reeling from the news bulletin. “Is that, that the case you were talking about earlier? The diplomat with the muscle relaxants?”

“Yep.” Sherlock said, emphasizing the p with a pop of his lips.

“Blimey.”

Sherlock leaned close, voice a dark purr.

“Want to see some more?”

John’s grin could have lit the building up.

“Oh, God yes.” 

**************************************************************************************************************  
*scrsshhh*

“Hey, uh, Herb?”

The screech of his walkie-talkie made Herbert Rollins, the building maintenance supervisor of Barts Hospital, reach for the device in back pocket. He was in the basement, trying to see what kind of electrical mishap had resulted in one of their lifts stopping between floors that afternoon. So far, nothing seemed amiss. But his young apprentice, Thomas, was supposed to be checking out the carriage itself. Maybe he had found something.

“Yeah, Tom, what is it? You find something?

“Yes, well, I mean no, not like that but yes I found something—”

Herb rolled his eyes and interrupted. “What did you find, lad”

“A cane? Just sitting here on the floor. Think it means something?”

Herb smiled. He had seen a lot of things in his twenty years at Barts, and this was one just one more small instance of recovery. 

“I think it means that somebody who was lost is now found.”

“…what?”

Herb chuckled. The lad still had some ways to go before he would see the signs and understand them for what they were: small miracles.

“I said take it to lost and found. But I’m telling you now, it’ll be a miracle if someone comes to claim it. Whoever they are, they don’t need it anymore. They found something better.”


End file.
